Keep Your Enemies Closer
by Ink Spotz
Summary: Sherlock is headed toward exile due to murdering Magnussen. Mycroft wants to protect his baby brother, but when he makes a deal in order to ensure that Sherlock will stay in London, will it be too steep a price to pay? Will he be able to keep up his end of the deal? Or will his world come crashing down anyway? (My idea for Series 4, Episode 1).
1. Chapter 1

**AN: While waiting for the official Series 4 to air, I decided to write my own take on what I think might happen. The bold portions that you will see, signify me quoting the show. I don't want to be thought of as stealing their original work, so the bold sentences are acknowledging what the writers of the show wrote at the end of Series 3, Episode 3. I really hope you enjoy it, and any reviews would be appreciated immensely. Thank you. :) **

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Chapter 1

Everything was working out supposedly.

Sherlock was about to fly off into exile to live on a remote strip of land far from the reaches of London opposed to being placed into prison for the murder of Magnussen.

John and his wife, Mary, had come to a sort of reconciliation, expecting a baby on the way.

Everything seemed to be working out.

The only problem was, Mycroft didn't want this.

The only problem was that Mycroft cared.

Mycroft stood in front of his sleek, black car, hands clasped behind his back. He turned his eyes toward the runway, as he watched Sherlock and John exchange their final goodbyes. He could tell from here how much Sherlock was hurting. Though he didn't express it, Mycroft could tell from his rigid posture that he was trying to hold himself together, at least until he boarded the plane.

Sherlock shook John's hand firmly, giving him a slight nod of his head. He watched Mary as she hugged him, no doubt thanking him again for saving her from Magnussen's unmerciful nature. When Mary released Sherlock from the hug, he nodded and boarded the plane. Mycroft watched Sherlock's back as he boarded the plane and saw that he was gradually beginning to slouch. He was gradually letting his grief becoming visible.

He watched the plane as the door was closed and it started up. He clasped his hands tighter, hoping against all hopes that his plan for getting him back from exile would work.

Yes, exile may be the only option that prevented Sherlock from going to jail, but if he was needed...

Mycroft couldn't just allow his baby brother to fly off and live life in grief. He wanted to be able to save him from that, even if he made a dangerous deal.

Soon, his eyes turned to the sky as he watched the plane run down the runway, tilting up at an angle as it flew up into the sky, ascending into the clouds.

Mycroft watched the plane until it was out of sight behind the clouds, allowing a small frown to play across his face. This deal couldn't be broken. It had to work. They couldn't back out on him now.

Suddenly, Mycroft's mobile rang. He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling it out.

"The deal is still on," responded a mechanical voice on the other end. "Turn on the television."

With a shaking hand, Mycroft opened the door to his car, and slipped into the back seat. He fiddled with the controls on the small television back there and soon, an image flickered onto the screen.

"Did you miss me?" said James Moriarty as he appeared on the screen, facing them.

Mycroft could feel his fingers becoming slippery with sweat as he dialed the number for the security's phone. He placed his phone to his ear as he listened to it ring. The line soon clicked, and the deep, rumbling voice of the security guard could be heard on the other line.

"Hello?

"Yes, this is Mycroft. I want to speak with Sherlock."

He heard silence on the other end of the phone as it was handed over. Soon, the familiar sound of his brother's voice came on the other end of the phone line.

**"Mycroft?"**

He had to do this right. He couldn't act overly excited because the deal he had made was actually starting to take place.

**"Hello little brother. How's the exile going?"**

He heard Sherlock scoff before he replied.

**"I've only been gone four minutes."**

Mycroft leaned back against the seats in his car, crossing his legs, trying to slow the rapid pounding of his heart.

**"Well, I certainly hope you've learnt your lesson. As it turns out, you're needed."**

There was silence for a moment. What was Sherlock thinking? Was he happy? Angry? Irritated?

**"Oh, for God's sake, make up your mind! Who needs me this time?"**

He quietly released a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Sherlock was only pretending to be irritated, but he was secretly happy. Mycroft knew he was.

His eyes flicked back to the screen in front of him where Moriarty still was.

**"England," he replied.**

There. That would be a vague answer to satisfy Sherlock's curiosity.

Another pause on the end of the phone line.

"Why does England need my help? I just killed a man."

"I realize this Sherlock, but what I say is true. Do you have inflight television?"

"Yes..."

"Turn it on."

Sherlock released a sigh. Silence lingered for a second, but soon Mycroft was able to hear the slightly garbled sound of, "Did you miss me?"

"He's back?" asked Sherlock, sounding shocked.

"It would appear so."

"I thought he was dead."

"Everyone thought he was dead, like you use to be. Apparently you both came back from the grave."

"What am I suppose to do?"

"Stop him from producing catastrophic mayhem obviously," replied Mycroft, trying to remain nonchalant.

Sherlock chuckled on the other end of the line.

"Let me speak to the guard so I can tell him to instruct the pilot to turn about. I'll pick you up once you've landed."

Sherlock didn't say anything. The silence reigned once more, before the rumbling voice of the guard came back on.

"Sherlock said you needed to speak with me?"

"Yes, I need you to tell the pilot to turnabout and land. Seems there have been a..." He was about to say 'unforeseen change of plans', but that would have been a lie. This had been planned, "...change of plans."

"Alright sir."

The line soon clicked, signifying that he had hung up to carry out his orders. Mycroft smiled as he tucked his mobile back into his pocket. It had worked. The deal had worked. Now came the scary part for him. Now he had to carry out his end of the deal...

But he couldn't think about that now. Sherlock was about to re-land. He had to go see his non-exiled brother.

He got out of the car, and walked across the grass toward the runway. Mary had gotten into the car, and John was about to get into the driving seat when he saw Mycroft coming over.

"One second, Mary," said John as he stood upright and walked over to Mycroft. "What are you doing, Mycroft?"

He stood on the edge of the runway, looking up toward the sky, waiting for the plane to come back into view.

"I'm waiting for the plane to land."

"The plane to land?" said John, looking at him strangely. "You don't mean the plane that just took off with Sherlock inside, do you?"

He turned to face John.

"Yes, that plane."

"But...but I thought he was going into exile now? Are you telling me that his sentence has been rescinded?..."

"Not that exactly," said Mycroft. "There has just been a change of plans."

John looked really confused by this point, placing his hands into his pocket as he looked up at the sky with Mycroft.

"What kind of change? What's happened?"

"I'm sure Sherlock will brief you soon enough. I mean, you are still going to be his partner on cases, aren't you?"

John bit his lip slightly, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"Well, with a baby on the way, I'm not sure how much help I'll be able to provide him with."

Mycroft looked at John out of the corner of his eye and saw that he was still trained on the clouds overhead.

"He'll need you."

That caused John to turn his head to look at Mycroft.

"He'll need you more than you even realize."

"I will try my best to assist him in whatever way that he possibly needs, I'm just saying that as a...precaution," said John, giving a short nod of his head to confirm that that was the right word to choose.

Mycroft allowed himself to smile slightly, nodding.

"Thank you, John."

John smiled too, nodding once more.

Suddenly the roar of the plane engine overhead could be heard, and both men craned their necks to look as the plane made its downward descent.

"Here comes Sherlock," said Mycroft, a wide grin spreading across his face.

John couldn't help, but widely grin either. He was happy to have his best friend back.

When the plane pulled to a stop and the door opened, Sherlock descended the steps, his eyes facing the two of them. Mycroft and John slowly walked over to the plane to meet Sherlock. Soon, they were standing face-to-face with him.

"So, I hear we have a crisis on our hands. We should get to work," said Sherlock, the glint of intrigue in his eyes.

"Come on, Sherlock..." Mycroft slung his arm lightly around Sherlock's shoulders. "Lets get to work."

"Tell me how I can help."

Mycroft smiled. He had gotten what he wanted. Sherlock was staying; he wasn't going into exile. The only problem was: what was this about to cost him?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_It was cold out, the wind biting at his neck as he stood, waiting for him to show up. Mycroft tucked his hands deep into his coat in an attempt to stay warm, flipping up the collar of the coat he had on like Sherlock would have done..._

_Like Sherlock would have done..._

_He desperately wanted to save his brother. He cared about his brother way too much, and that was the danger. He cared _too _much. _

_He had managed to convince the Yard to allow Sherlock to go into exile, instead of rotting away in a jail cell somewhere. However, he found that he wasn't happy with that, and he was not the only one. John also didn't want to see Sherlock fly out of his life, and neither did a number of people if they actually cared to admit it. Mycroft hadn't realized that he had grown soft toward his brother, taking his older brother role quite seriously. He was going to make sure Sherlock stayed in London, even if he ended up digging himself a hole._

_His head snapped up at the sound of rocks crunching under tires. He turned toward the sound, his eyes frantically searching the darkening alley. A tan car pulled into view, the windows tinted, hiding the passengers inside. He could feel his heart beat picking up speed as he stood there, waiting for the car to pull to a stop._

_The car pulled to a stop, and sat there, staring at him for what felt like an eternity. He started to rock back and forth on the balls of his heels, impatient to get this deal underway. He wondered what the other party would ask for in exchange, but he couldn't dwell on that fact too long. Whatever the price, he was determined to pay it. He had already made up his mind._

_Finally, the back door of the car opened, and out stepped a man, his head down. He approached Mycroft, and stood in front of him, his head still trained on the ground. _

_This was it._

"_I have a proposition for you...to make it so you don't have to hide anymore," said Mycroft, deciding to be the ice breaker. _

_The man chuckled, kicking at the ground, causing dirt to fly upward in a small puff._

"_I'll always have to hide...you're merely offering me the chance to surface again for a while."_

"_I thought that you would prefer that than the alternative," said Mycroft. "Wasting away in boredom doesn't sound pleasurable." _

_He smirked, finally bringing his eyes up to meet Mycroft's gaze. Mycroft's heart momentarily lept up into his throat. He really was still alive._

"_A genius is always bored," replied James Moriarty. "We just find ways to entertain ourselves for a bit."_

"_I'm offering you a chance to be free once more," said Mycroft. "I'm being generous."_

_He scoffed, rolling his eyes._

"_You, apparently, need to read a dictionary once in a while, Mycroft. See generous is when you do something for someone else and don't expect anything in return, and I know very well that you want something from me."_

"_You're right. I do want something from you, but I'm sure it's something that you won't mind doing in the long run."_

"_Really? Pray tell, why do you think that?"_

"_It'll keep Sherlock around."_

_A wide smile spread across James's face. _

"_Poor, little Sherlock get himself into some trouble? Does he need his big brother to help him out?" asked James in a mocking, condescending tone._

"_I don't have to go into the details..."_

"_Yes, you do. I need to weigh my options."_

"_Look," said Mycroft, growing angry at James. "You can either help me out, or you can crawl back into the hole you came from, and I _will _hunt you do and put you in jail."_

"_Oh, testy are we?" chuckled James, obviously enjoying Mycroft's angered state. _

"_I don't have time to dawdle here all day while you goad me. Make a decision."_

_James turned his head off to the side, looking up at the clouds._

"_What are you wanting me to do exactly?"_

"_Reappear in London with some kind of grand entrance, so that Sherlock has a purpose for staying."_

_James nodded as he listened, his face passive. _

"_What do I get in exchange?"_

"_Your freedom."_

"_Yes, but it's temporary. You know that as soon as Sherlock is set after me, he's like a dog with a bone. He won't quit until I'm behind bars."_

"_I'll grant you immunity."_

_He rolled his eyes. _

_"What will be your excuse? Obviously you want to keep this exchange in the dark," said James, gesturing around at their surroundings. "That'll never work."_

"_What are you wanting in exchange?"_

_James bit his lip in thought for a second, casting his gaze back up as the stars started to twinkle into view. Suddenly, a wicked smile spread across his face._

"_What are you wanting in exchange?" repeated Mycroft, starting to dread the answer._

_James turned his gaze on Mycroft once more, the grin still on his face._

"_I'll tell you _exactly _what I expect in exchange..."_

* * *

"Mycroft!"

He snapped out of his thoughts, turning to focus on Sherlock who sat across from him in the car. Sherlock quirked a brow at him.

"I've been talking to you for the past five minutes. Have you adopted your own mind palace?"

Mycroft chuckled, pasting a small smile on his face.

"Yes, sorry...just preoccupied."

Sherlock didn't buy that. He could tell, but for once, he didn't press him.

"Yes, well, what am I suppose to do now? What are you going to tell all of London about my reappearance?"

"Don't worry about that. Your only worry is on Moriarty. I will iron out all the other wrinkles that appear."

"I know you had a hand in this," said Sherlock, turning his gaze to look out the window for a moment.

"How could I have had a hand in this?"

He was starting to panic. Was Sherlock really starting to see through this already?

He shrugged.

"It just seems too...planned, is all."

Sherlock turned his gaze back on Mycroft.

"Moriarty does things on his own whim. I merely was in the right place at the right time."

"Does John know about Moriarty's return?" asked Sherlock, changing the subject.

Mycroft was grateful for the change in subject, but he knew Sherlock. Just because he changed the subject now did not mean that he intended to drop it completely.

"No, he doesn't."

Mycroft turned in his seat to look out the back window at John's car, which was following closely behind them. "It's your job to brief him."

"It's going to come as quite a shock to him, I'm sure. He thought that we were both dead for two years."

"Yes," said Mycroft, turning back around to face Sherlock, "But I'm sure he's glad you're not dead now."

"I know he is," said Sherlock. "We have made amends before all of this happened."

"Good. You two will need each other. You're a stronger unit together."

Sherlock nodded, agreeing with what Mycroft said. He needed John on his cases. Even if he didn't want to admit it, he couldn't solve those cases without him.

"Am I allowed to stay at the flat?" asked Sherlock, once again effortlessly changing the subject.

"Yes,...though for right now, I'd prefer if you'd stay with me at my place."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Mycroft.

"Why's that?"

"It'll just be easier to keep an eye on you if you're staying with me. Once London realizes that you aren't exiled, they'll come after you. You know the tabloids and all."

Sherlock nodded, remembering Kitty Riley and how she had believed in James Moriarty's cover, Richard Brooks.

"Alright. Thank you."

"Of course," said Mycroft, once again pasting a small smile on his face.

What Mycroft didn't want to admit was that he was worried about Sherlock, especially after the deal he had made with Moriarty. He was worried about Sherlock's safety, and this way, he could make sure he stayed safe.

With the smile still on his face, he looked right at Sherlock, locking his gaze on him.

"I always have my brother's best interest at heart."

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**AN: Thank you for all of the reviews, favorites, and follows! I really appreciate it! Please keep it up! I'll look forward to all your reviews. I hope you enjoyed this installment. :) **


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"John, you'll want to sit before I tell you the news," said Sherlock, his cool blue eyes staring into the clearly confused eyes of his friend.

"Why?" He leaned in the doorway of Mycroft's office, his chest heaving up and down, his sentence enunciated by pants. He had parked his car, and run inside. You could tell.

"Just trust me."

"Sherlock..."

Mycroft smirked. They were already at it. He leaned against his desk as he watched Sherlock take a seat, crossing his legs and leaning back. This is exactly what he wanted. He wanted to preserve this, and he had. He was just still preoccupied by thoughts of what was next.

"John, you'll faint on the floor." He said, looking straight at John, being able to predict what his reaction would be.

"Sherlock, go easy on John," said Mycroft, realizing that Sherlock was just teasing.

"I won't faint, Sherlock."

"You'll go weak in the knees then. It's all really the same..."

"Sherlock, please just tell me what's going on already? Why were you called back?"

John crossed his arms, shifting his position slightly, but still remaining in the doorway.

"A problem has presented itself that needs our immediate attention," started Sherlock, trying to approach the subject gently.

"Out with it already, Sherlock. What is going on? I was a soldier. I can handle it."

"You won't be able to handle this," said Sherlock, training his eyes on John. "Moriarty's back."

"Wh-what?"

John started to stagger, going a bit weak in the knees like Sherlock had predicted. Mycroft went over and gingerly led him toward a chair, which he sank into.

"But how?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I'm still trying to work out that detail myself."

John shook his head, leaning back in the chair.

"What kind of life insurance do you two have?" John chuckled slightly. "This is unbelievable..."

Mycroft smirked at John's joke, going back to leaning against the desk, crossing his arms.

Suddenly, his mobile started to vibrate. He reached into his pocket, and dug it out to see who was calling. When he saw that the identity of the caller was unavailable, he gulped. He knew exactly who it was.

"Excuse me. I have to take this," said Mycroft, standing back up straight.

Sherlock turned to look at him, but didn't say anything. He nodded, understanding. Mycroft went out into the hallway, walking around the corner before he dared to answer it.

"Mycroft Holmes speaking."

"We had an agreement," said the garbled voice. "Now it's time for you to hold up to your end of the bargain."

Mycroft gulped, turning slightly to look over his shoulder, making sure no one had followed him.

"I can't. Not now. It's too soon."

"No, you will, and you'll do it now."

Even though the voice was disguised, he could still tell that the person on the other end of the line was James.

"Give me some time..."

"If I give you time, you'll just keep asking for more. It'll just become a viscous cycle. I want you to hold up your end of the deal."

"It's not that easy to hold up my end of the deal."

"'Not that easy'...Listen to you whine. You're just stalling."

"What you're asking from me is something that takes time."

"Resigning can't be that time consuming..."

He gulped again, looking once more down the hall.

"It can be, when I realize that you'll take my place, though I still don't know how that'll work..."

"Leave the details to me."

"Sherlock will be suspicious..."

"You should have thought about that before you made the deal."

"I wanted Sherlock to be happy," hissed Mycroft. "And he is."

"Well good, then it's time you made me happy. You can either resign from the picture, and give me what I want, or you can keep your position, and I'll just leak to the press the deal we made."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, I would. See, I have leverage now. Now you have to do what I want."

Mycroft took a deep breath, trying to figure out what to do next.

"Fine. I'll meet you in an hour, with the resignation papers."

"Where are we meeting?"

"The same place we met before."

"Fine. You know it's only fair. It's just politics, Mycroft."

The line suddenly went dead as James Moriarty hung up. He shook his head, quickly re-pocketing his mobile. He couldn't resign. If he resigned, all of Britain would be in trouble. He knew that James had tricks up his sleeve to take his position, and he couldn't let that happen. It was time he put a stop to James's plan before it was put fully into motion. It wasn't fair what he was about to do, but it was the only option he had left. He dug out his mobile again, calling a few people on his security staff. He had to do this to stop James before it was too late.

It wasn't going to be fair to him, but after all, it was just politics.

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**AN: Thank you for all the continued reviews and support! I will make sure to keep updating. :) Please let me know what you thought of this chapter. :) **


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

By the time Mycroft went back into the room, Sherlock and John were already standing.

"Leaving so soon?" He asked.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "We need to go to St. Bart's, look at the scene again."

Mycroft nodded.

"If you need anything, you know how you can reach me."

Sherlock nodded.

"I won't be gone too long. I don't want to wake you tonight after all," said Sherlock.

That was right. He was staying with him. How could he had forgotten that?

It was probably because he had something much bigger to deal with than his brother's sleeping arrangements.

"Take your time. You won't bother me," said Mycroft with a quick smile.

Sherlock raised a brow at the quick smile, but said nothing. Mycroft knew though, that Sherlock would be doing a full interrogation once he arrived home later that night. With one more nod in his direction, Sherlock left his office with John, out to investigate how Moriarty was still alive.

Once they were gone, Mycroft set right to work to put his plan into motion. He went behind his desk and pulled open a drawer, leafing through it. He did not intend to resign, but he needed to make James believe that he was. He stuffed a folder with the resignation papers, which he left blank, and stuffed them in his briefcase. After that he pulled open another drawer, swallowing the lump in his throat as he looked at what lay in there.

A gun.

It sat there unused, still shiny from being displayed in the store. Mycroft reached down and wrapped his fingers around the gun, bringing it out of the drawer. He stared at it in his hands and turned it back and forth as if it were something completely alien to him. He had stashed this gun here for emergencies. This was an emergency.

He placed it in the inner pocket of his coat, hoping that James wouldn't be able to tell that it was there. He only intended to use it if he had to. He did not intend on killing James.

As soon as he had placed the gun in his coat, two of his security guards appeared. They stood erect as statues in the doorway, waiting for Mycroft's command. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft began to unfold his plan to them.

* * *

Mycroft stood in the meeting place, the same place he had met with Moriarty what seemed like an eternity ago. He could feel himself become even more anxious the longer the time stretched on. He rolled up the sleeve of his coat to look at his watch, the sun reflecting off the watch's face as he read the pixelated digits. In one more minute, it would be exactly an hour.

Suddenly, Mycroft heard the sound of footsteps clicking on the pavement. He brought his head up to see James Moriarty walking toward him. He seemed to have gotten a bit cockier ever since he had revealed himself again. He wasn't as afraid to be recognized anymore. Mycroft found that a tad strange, especially considering that he was charged with a handful of crimes. It was as if he wasn't afraid of Sherlock, or anyone else for that matter, catching him and turning him in. Mycroft gulped. It was probably because he thought he'd be safe once he acquired his position.

That wasn't going to happen.

"Do you have the papers?" asked James as he stopped a couple inches away from him, his hands tucked in his pocket. "Of course you must. You'd be foolish to show up without them."

Mycroft set his briefcase on a nearby case, clicking it open. He grabbed the file and handed it to him. He had to pretend that the documents inside were what James wanted.

James grabbed the file, looking at its exterior, biting his lip.

"It's all there; all signed. I'm no longer in a position to defy you."

James picked at the edge of the folder with a finger, making Mycroft's heart beat ten times faster. If he saw that the papers weren't signed, he'd have to take immediate action.

"Why do I get the sense that I shouldn't trust you?" asked James, looking at you with hardened eyes.

Mycroft hardened his own gaze, not willing to give anything away.

"Trust me or don't. It makes no difference to me."

James smirked.

"Bold, aren't we?"

"I have nothing to be ashamed of."

James slipped his finger into the folder, making it pop open a bit. Mycroft focused on closing his briefcase to calm down, ignoring the fact that his fingers were becoming sweaty and slipping off the clasps.

"Lets just see about that."

James cracked open the folder, and Mycroft shook. He slipped his hand into his coat while James was looking through the folder, wrapping his hands around the gun and withdrawing it. He held the gun in front of him, pointing it right at his chest.

"You didn't sign these!" James growled, jerking his head up from the folder.

When he saw Mycroft standing there with a gun trained on him, he smirked, slapping the folder shut and throwing it onto the ground.

"Really? You're going to shoot me now?"

Mycroft felt his hand wobble, and brought his other hand up to steady himself.

"You're going to become just like Sherlock, aren't you? Murder someone and get exiled?" James shook his head, tsking. "Only this time, no one will be there to keep it from happening."

Mycroft closed his eyes, counting his heart beats as he tried to steady his nerves. He couldn't let James get under his skin.

"So go ahead. Shoot me. It's all just a circle when you think about it. One of the Holmes was destined to be exiled."

Mycroft felt the gun press back in his hands slightly. He opened his eyes and looked to see that James was standing right in front of him so that the gun was pressed into his chest.

"Shoot me. I _dare_ you."

He felt his finger slip around the trigger. James smirked at his hesitation.

"Your brother has better nerves than you do. He killed Magnussen without a second thought."

Magnussen. When he thought that name, he remembered everything that had transpired. He had watched from the helicopter as Sherlock shot Magnussen in the temple, killing him instantly. He remembered his heart dropping into his stomach at that. Sherlock dropped the gun to his side, holding his hands up as he knelt down. That wasn't his brother. His brother wasn't a killer.

Yet there he was, kneeling in front of the copters as the lights flashed over him, voices crackling over the megaphones to instruct him not to move. He looked at how helpless his brother looked, John standing off to the side in complete shock. He knew from that moment that he had to protect Sherlock. He couldn't watch his little brother rot in a jail. He was determined to do anything for him, just as he claimed killing Magnussen was to protect Mary and John.

Sherlock was not a killer, and neither was he.

He released his hold on the trigger, slowly bringing the gun to rest at his side.

"I'm not a killer," said Mycroft flatly, looking into James's eyes as the smirk once again appeared.

"You could have fooled me," he said, chuckling slightly. "What a shame..."

James dug out a gun of his own, training it on the center of Mycroft's forehead.

"You could have protected yourself. You should have known better. You don't break deals with me."

Mycroft discreetly adverted his gaze to see if the security guards were waiting in the background like he had ordered them. He caught sight of one of them and sighed with relief. They were still there. If this went south fast, he'd be protected.

He hoped.

"Don't fret about your death; don't be scared. I'm merciful. I'll make it quick."

He watched as James wrapped a finger around the trigger, pulling back on it slightly. With his heart pounding fast in his chest, he allowed his eyelids to flutter shut, waiting for whatever was going to happen next.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"John, do you think that Mycroft is acting weird?" asked Sherlock as he inclined his head at an angle, crouching down and running his fingers over the now cleared stone on the roof of St. Bart's.

"What do you mean by weird?" asked John as he crouched down next to Sherlock, helping him to look for clues.

"When have you known him to answer a phone call right in front of us?"

"Well, he could be busy. We don't usually find our way into his office," said John.

"Yes, but not only did he take the call, but instead of asking us to leave the room, _he _left the room."

"He might have not wanted to throw you out of his office since we were talking. He was trying not to be rude."

Sherlock let out a sigh, and rose to his feet, arching his back slightly as he stretched his arms above his head.

"He also seemed happy that I was staying with him, telling me to, 'take my time'. Even the quick smile he flashed me suggested that he had something else on his mind."

"Sherlock, he basically controls the British government. When doesn't he have something on his mind?"

John reached out and pat Sherlock's back gently.

"Your brother just cares about you is all. He's not acting weird alright."

Sherlock didn't agree with John, but decided not to press the issue further. Something was going on with Mycroft and he was determined to figure out what.

* * *

What happened next to Mycroft seemed to happen in slow motion.

He awaited the bullet, thinking about how it would slice through him with such speed and accuracy, that he probably would not feel or remember anything. Maybe he was already dead, and if he'd open his eyes, he'd see that for himself

Yet he still kept his eyes shut, too afraid to look to see if it was true.

The sound of a gun shot never registered in his ears though. Shouldn't he at least be able to hear his death coming? That was when a sound registered itself in the ear.

It was not the sound of a gunshot though.

Instead it was the sound of a gun clattering to the pavement.

He opened his eyes to see that the security guards had revealed themselves, one pinning James's hands behind his back and the other clamping their hand over his mouth. James glared at him with a fiery fury, jerking and twisting, trying to break free of their strong grasp.

"You shouldn't have tried to kill me," said Mycroft, trying to regain his courage, managing to bit by bit.

James said something, but Mycroft couldn't understand it because of the hand clamped firmly over his mouth.

"Take him away from here," said Mycroft, looking at his guards.

James put up an even harder fight, not willing to be dragged away that easily. He nodded toward one of the guards to indicate to them that they should do something about his obvious display of protest. In response to the nod, one of the security guards grabbed a cloth out of their pocket and proceeded to clamp it over James's mouth in place of the hand. The cloth was soaked in chloroform and immediately made James slump, his fight lessening. Once he was completely unconscious, the guards proceeded to drag him toward a car that was awaiting nearby.

Mycroft watched James as he was placed in the car. When the car took off down the road, he looked at his watch. Good. At this rate, he should make it to his house before Sherlock showed up to avoid him questioning him about where he had been. If everything worked out in his favor, he'd be able to get home and slip into his bedroom, pretending to sleep, so that when Sherlock got there, he really wouldn't bother him.

Being brothers, they could each read each other like an open book, even if they didn't want to be. Sherlock could read him much better simply because he was good at identifying all the signs and knowing what it meant. Mycroft knew that if he sat in the same room as Sherlock for too long that Sherlock would figure out what was going on. He couldn't allow that to happen, especially now that he had kidnapped Moriarty to keep him silent.

He wasn't about to resign, nor was he ready to lose his position. James didn't know what he was stepping into when he tried to make a deal like that. James may know how to play dirty, but so did he if he had to.

Mycroft hailed a cab and soon arrived back at his flat. Sighing with relief, he dug out his keys and started to unlock the door. If Sherlock had beat him home, (which he highly doubted), he knew where he hid his spare key. As Mycroft pushed open the door, he saw that his flat was undisturbed, and sighed with relief.

He placed his keys in the bowl by the door after shutting the door, hanging his coat up on the hook. He walked into the main room, digging out his mobile to flip through missed calls and messages. He was jerked out of his thoughts by the sound of his younger brother's voice.

"Busy day at the office?"

Shocked, Mycroft looked up from his mobile to look at Sherlock. Sherlock was seated in one of his armchairs, his legs crossed in front of him, his hands steepled in front of his lips.

"You could say that," said Mycroft. "I didn't expect you to be here so early."

"The lead that I was chasing was a dead end," said Sherlock. "To be honest, it wasn't much of a lead to begin with."

Mycroft sat in a chair across from Sherlock, placing his mobile aside.

"It doesn't help that the person you're searching for was presumed dead anyway."

Sherlock nodded.

"How about you tell me what you were up to?" suggested Sherlock.

"You know my work is classified," said Mycroft. "I can't do that."

"Fine then. I'll deduce it," said Sherlock.

Mycroft sighed, standing up from his chair, grabbing his mobile.

"Go ahead. You won't get very far."

"Doubt that," said Sherlock, standing up too. He walked over to Mycroft, starting his deduction. "You jumped up as soon as I said I'd deduce what you were doing, which suggests that my deduction of you is making you nervous. You wouldn't be nervous unless whatever you were doing for work is something that you want to keep hidden. When you jumped to your feet, you also grabbed up your mobile. I realize that you work in the government, so your mobile is, in a way, your life, but it also suggests that you have something on your mobile that is attached to the work you don't want me to know about. This fact is also cemented by the fact that you were looking at your mobile when you entered this very room."

Mycroft turned away. He was not going to give in to Sherlock's deductions. He wasn't going to let him get that answer out of him. Sherlock edged closer to him, and before he could stop him, he had taken the mobile from his hands. Mycroft tried to grab it back, but Sherlock held it out of his reach.

"You're quite a predictable man. There are only twelve viable passcodes for your mobile, and I can narrow that down based solely on which keys have smudges on them from your grubby fingers, which also show that you have been up to something."

"Sherlock..." He said slowly, holding out his hand for his mobile. "Give it back."

Sherlock ignored him, his fingers flying across the buttons of his mobile.

"Got it!" He said with a satisfied smile.

Irritated beyond belief, not caring if it was rude or not, Mycroft lunged forward, yanking the mobile free of Sherlock's hands before he could read any of the files.

"You don't need to know the answer to this mystery, Sherlock. Goodnight."

Mycroft left Sherlock standing there, puzzling, as he walked into his bedroom and shut the door. He tucked his mobile safely away in a drawer and sat on the bed, holding his head in his hands. What mess had he gotten himself into? Why couldn't he tell Sherlock the truth?

He laid down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. It's because if he told him the truth, he'd see a side of him he didn't want him to see.

The vulnerable side.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Mycroft was woken in the middle of the night by his mobile vibrating beside his head. Reaching a hand up to grab it, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. He looked at the display on his mobile to see that he had an incoming call that was blocked. He answered the mobile and placed it to his ear, stifling a yawn.

"Yes?"

"We're having a problem with James."

Of course it had to be one of his security guards. He was still tired and irritable, hence his terse mood.

"Why can't you handle it? You're perfectly capable enough."

"Sir, he's not breathing."

"What?"

Now Mycroft was wide awake, fully alert.

"What do you mean he's not breathing?"

"Exactly that. He isn't responding sir. We've tried everything, even CPR."

"What happened? Why isn't he?"

"We don't know, sir. We were hoping you could get down here to check it out."

Of course, Mycroft was secretly relieved that he might be rid of the problem of James, but he had a guilty conscience that still nagged at him, telling him that he couldn't let someone die because he kidnapped them. Eventually someone would find out and the truth would ruin his whole life. He had to go see if he could help, even if it was futile.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Mycroft hung up his mobile, and turned on his small bedside lamp. He got out of bed and immediately dressed himself in a suit. It shouldn't matter how he presented himself seeing as it was one in the morning and no one would be out, but he wanted to be cautious. He slipped his mobile into his pocket, shutting his light off, and quietly tip-toeing out of the room.

He held his breath as he tip-toed across the main room, hoping that he wouldn't accidentally creak a floorboard and awake Sherlock. He hoped that Sherlock would just remain asleep and oblivious. He had to remain in the dark. If he knew the truth, there was no telling how he'd react.

Mycroft grabbed his keys quietly from the bowl by the door and slipped out into the night. He hailed a cab and gave the cabbie the address. As he rode down the street, he only hoped that James wasn't dead, or he'd have a bigger scandal on his hands.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes flew open, making him stare up into the darkness. Why was he awake at such an early time? There must be a reason.

That was when the sound of a creak registered in his ear. It was muted slightly, which meant that someone was walking around in one of the bedrooms. Seeing that the only other person living here at the moment was Mycroft, Sherlock slowly swung his feet over the side of the bed, listening to his movements, wondering what he was up to.

He turned on his mobile and used the light it created as a flashlight, dodging the creaky boards, and opening the door a sliver. He dimmed the light from his mobile, and watched as a shadowy figure made their way across the main room, grabbing up the keys from the bowl by the door, and disappearing outside. Where was Mycroft going? Especially at this hour. Something was fishy.

Sherlock had been right.

Immediately, he turned on a light and got dressed himself. He was determined to find out where Mycroft was going. He knew that Mycroft would be long gone by the time he managed to get outside, but he couldn't get too far. He'd find him.

Mycroft wasn't going to hide anything from him anymore.

* * *

When Mycroft arrives, everything was eerily silent. That was to be suspected though, considering that this is where he was trying to hide James Moriarty from the world. He walked toward the warehouse, a soft florscent light shining underneath the crack in the door, signifying that there was someone inside. He rapped twice quickly, and then once long. That was the signal that was established to make it so only authorized people could get inside.

It took a couple minutes, but soon Mycroft could hear the sound of the locks clicking back into place. Soon the door swung open, and Mycroft was bathed by the light from inside. One of his security guards stood in the doorway, a panicked look on his face. He seemed frightened.

"He's this way, sir."

Mycroft followed the guard quickly, almost stepping on his heels. He couldn't be dead. He just couldn't. He had already evaded death once. To die now, to die here, would be utterly unbelievable.

The further that he was being led into the warehouse, the more curious he became. If they had this whole warehouse to themselves, why station a potentially dead captive this far away? The guard led him into a darken room, reaching to his right to flick on a light switch. As soon as the light lit up the room, Mycroft's heart hammered hard in his chest. His other security guard lay dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood, James standing in front of him, a gun pointed at his chest once again.

"I'm sorry, sir..." said the guard behind him, feeling ashamed that he led his boss into a trap.

"Hello Mycroft. Long time no see. You didn't actually believe that I was dead, did you?"

When Mycroft locked his jaw and didn't reply, James started to laugh.

"Oh, you did. Such a gullible man after all, aren't you?"

He moved the gun toward an empty metal chair nearby.

"Why don't you sit down and make yourself comfortable? After all, I'm not a monster."

Mycroft made no move to sit down in the chair, crossing his arms in front of him. Though he was trembling with fear on the inside, he refused to show it.

"Sit down, Mycroft. Don't make me get angry."

When Mycroft still didn't move, James shook his head, chuckling slightly.

"Why is it that you people never listen to me when I'm calm? You only listen when I'm angry." He made his voice more high-pitched as he said, "Oh, it's because he's a psychopath and psychopath's never ask nicely." He lowered his voice again, his eyes transforming into two burning coals. "Sit. Down. _Now."_

He did as you said that time, fearing for his life if he didn't comply with his demand. He sank onto the metal chair, his eyes focusing on James. A small smile crept onto his face as he looked at Mycroft.

"It's amazing how easily your two guards could be bought off. Well, at least that one could," said James, waving the gun at the guard by the door dismissively. "That one on the other hand, I had to shoot. Such a shame..."

Mycroft turned his gaze to look at the dead man on the floor, his pulse quickening. James might just decide to kill him too and be done with him.

He had to hope that that wasn't the case.

"What do you want, James?"

"I want my end of the deal. Duh!" stated James, like the answer should have been obvious. In hind sight, Mycroft realized that it was.

"I will not resign, just to watch you make everything fall in flames around you."

"Ouch! What? No faith in me?" James snickered, crouching down in front of Mycroft so he was eye level with him. "Do you think that all I can cause is destruction?"

"Destruction and death, yes," said Mycroft, hardening his gaze as he stared back at him. There was no way that he was going to appear weak in front of James.

He smirked, rolling his eyes.

"Trying to be brave. How sweet. It won't save you in the end."

James stood back up, arching his back slightly as he stretched, stifling a yawn as if he found this conversation boring.

"What happens in all those hero stories? Oh, that's right. The hero _always _wins. Well, news flash Mycroft, this isn't a story, and you're certainly no hero. Do you think that Sherlock would agree with what you have done to assure that he stays in London?"

Mycroft didn't say anything. James chuckled, spinning the gun around on his finger as if it were a toy, and not a weapon that could kill people.

"We can either go about you holding up to your end of the deal the easy way, or the hard way. Either way, you _will _comply."

"I doubt that," said Mycroft. "Tarnish my reputation if you must."

He laughed, rolling his eyes.

"You really don't get it, do you, Mycroft? No, I won't just tarnish your image and reputation if you don't hold up your end of the deal..." James circled his chair like a vulture, pausing behind him, bending down to whisper next to his ear, "...I'll make you commit suicide."

He stood back up straight, chuckling.

"Oh, it'll be such justice. I was robbed last time when Sherlock didn't die. I suppose it won't matter if you end up dead instead. At least you're of the same blood line."

"I won't kill myself," stated Mycroft definitively.

"Trust me. I have ways of making you wish that you were dead. One way or another, Mycroft Holmes, you will make me satisfied. I assure you. After all, I _always_ get what I want. Never try to double cross a genius like me."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

There were only two possible directions that Mycroft could have taken. The cab sat at the intersection while Sherlock looked out the window, trying to determine which path he had more than likely taken. Going to the right would lead back to downtown London. Going to the left would lead to a row of warehouses. If Mycroft was up to something, he'd more than likely chose to go left in order to hide what he was doing.

The cabbie tapped a finger on the steering wheel, as if he were slightly impatient. The cabbie was lucky that he was able to deduce fairly quickly which path Mycroft had taken in his cab. If he was just an average, everyday person, it would have taken the person another five minutes to decide which direction to take.

"Go left," said Sherlock to the cabbie, leaning back in his seat again.

The cabbie turned the steering wheel, driving left where tons of warehouses were situated. Sherlock continued to watch out the window as the darkened warehouses passed him by. What was Mycroft doing here at this time at night?

"Stop here," said Sherlock suddenly, causing the cabbie to pull to a stop.

He dug into his coat pocket, and pressed some crinkled bills into the cabbie's hand, getting out of the cab. He shut the door of the cab, tucking his hands into his coat. He allowed his icy blue eyes glance up at the stars, which twinkled and slowly dimmed above his head. He brought his eyes back down to survey the warehouses that stood in front of him. After the cab had driven off on him, all was silent. It was much too silent, even for abandoned warehouses. Usually there was at least a creak or two as the building settled, or mice scattered across the beams.

But no. Nothing.

Sherlock picked up his feet slowly, and quietly walked down the row of warehouses, looking for one that Mycroft might have disappeared into. Even though he was trying to be quiet, his steps still echoed slightly off the pavement, sending off soft echoes to the surrounding metal buildings.

If Mycroft was here, he definitely was hiding something.

Sherlock almost wanted to just call out Mycroft's name and see if he responded, but didn't. Just as he was coming toward the end of the row of warehouses, he paused. He thought he had heard something. He turned his head to the right, staring at the door that lay a few feet away from him. Was that a muted yell he had heard? Still trying to be quiet, he slowly walked toward the building. Sure enough, when he got closer, he saw that the soft glow of a light decorated the pavement by the door. He looked down along the wall and saw a window a little way away. He crouched down and made his way along the wall, hidden from view. Once he was outside the window, he looked up. The window was fogged with dust so if he stuck his head up briefly, no one would realize it was him.

He turned his head toward the wall so he could hear if the yell started again. That's when he heard it. With his head turned toward the side, he managed to pick up strains of a heated conversation. There was someone else in there with Mycroft, if this was even the right building.

He might as well check.

He waited until the conversation had died down again before bringing his head up to peek through the dusty window. He managed to make out three shadows in the room. One of the shadows stood by the door, acting like a guard. Another shadow sat in a chair, while the last shadow circled it. He desperately wanted to place faces to the shadows so he took a deep breath and did something risky. He brought his sleeve up and rubbed it against the window, trying to reveal the people inside.

He managed to rub a small hole in the dust, where he placed his eye so he could see inside. His heart picked up speed. Mycroft was definitely in the building, but he was in trouble.

Moriarty had him.

He quickly ducked back down underneath the window, pressing his back against the cold metal wall. He had to rescue Mycroft. There was no telling what Moriarty would want with him. He had to get him out of there.

He had to protect his older brother.

* * *

"So, Mycroft, what'll it be?"

Mycroft still stared at James. Though he was filled with fear, he would not, under any circumstances, resign from his post. He was stupid to make that deal in the first place. He had just been so desperate to keep Sherlock from exile. But now, when it was time to pay up to his end of the deal, he just couldn't. He couldn't let thousands of people suffer because of a stupid deal he had made during one of his desperate moments. He realized that even if he refused, James would kill him and still try to take his position, but at least this way, he wouldn't be doing it willingly.

"I will not resign if that's what you are asking."

A small smile flitted across James's face.

"Very well then. Death it is."

He walked in front of him, a giddiness to his steps.

"This'll be such fun. How shall I make you die? Should I make you fall of a building like I almost made your brother? Should I have you shoot yourself in the head? Or maybe even jump in front of a car!"

The more ways to die that James listed, the more excited he became. Mycroft sat there, becoming more afraid by the second. James was a psychopath and psychopath loved to cause death. It was their thing. He knew that no one would be able to save him from what was about to transpire either. He had done this without telling anyone, because he wanted to keep the deal a secret. He never imagined it would turn out like this. He had been stupid. He had let his care for Sherlock cloud over everything else. Caring was a disadvantage after all. He should have listened to his own advice.

"Well, I certainly won't have you commit suicide here. You need an audience."

He skipped over to Mycroft, yanking him to his feet.

"Come along. This will be fun. Well, at least it'll be fun for me."

He grabbed Mycroft and started to lead him from the room, the traitor guard following close behind. Mycroft certainly didn't want to die, but when he thought about it, it was worth it. Sherlock was happy. If he hadn't made this deal, Sherlock would be wallowing in depression in exile. At least this way, he could be happy again, and he would eventually stop James's rule over London. He had no doubts about that. His death was necessary. He did care, no matter how dangerous that was. He had to die.

He had to protect his baby brother.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Sherlock crouched behind a crate as he heard the warehouse door creak open. He cautiously poked his head out to see what was going on. Moriarty had a strong grip on Mycroft's arm as he led him toward a car that awaited them there. The traitor of a guard followed. Sherlock bit his lip as he contemplated what he should do next. If he stepped out of hiding now, unarmed, then he would just be taken along too, and he'd be no help to his brother.

Sherlock turned his attention to the vehicle. Who was going to be the one driving it? His eyes flicked to the guard as he watched him walk in the direction of the driver's seat. So the traitor guard would be the driver. Immediately, an idea came into Sherlock's head. He could tell just by looking at the vehicle that it was one of the vehicles like Mycroft had, where the front seat and the back seat were divided by a sheet of glass. If he could overtake the guard and take his position, then he'd be able to possibly save his brother.

Though it was very risky, it was the only chance he had, and he wasn't about to let it slip through his fingers.

The next question that he was posed with was how did he overtake the guard and trade places with him without anyone noticing?

Another risky idea presented itself to him. To take the guard's place, he would have to cause some sort of distraction.

He noticed that there were a few small pebbles around his feet, and he bent down to pick one up. He'd have to time this exactly right. As the guard approached Sherlock's range, he quickly threw the pebble at the back of his head with force. The guard's meaty hand immediately went up to touch the back of his neck where the pebble had connected. Sherlock smiled slightly as he threw another one, hitting the same spot. This time, the guard wiped around and looked to see where it had come from. While he was facing him, Sherlock threw another, hitting him in the forehead. The guard growled, turning to look at Moriarty momentarily.

"Someone's throwing rocks at me."

Moriarty paused in his walk, turning to face the guard to put a small pout on his face.

"Oh, poor baby. Go find who it is! What are you wanting me to do? Fix the problem myself?"

"Yes sir," said the guard.

Sherlock could see a small look of surprise and hurt cross Mycroft's face. Apparently his traitor guard never revered him like that. Sherlock wanted to just spring from hiding and strangle him, but he'd get the chance to beat the guard senseless soon enough.

The guard started to walk toward Sherlock's direction as Moriarty and Mycroft got into the back of the vehicle, shutting the door. Sherlock crouched even more underneath the crate. He had to mentally prepare himself to overtake the guard, who was clearly much stronger than he was. He watched the ground, seeing the shadow of the guard appear. That meant that the guard was near. He waited until he thought that the guard was close enough, and sprung up, jumping onto his back. He immediately clamped one hand over his mouth to keep him from screaming out, and wrapped the other around his neck. He went over mentally in his head how to knock someone out cold by holding their neck. He kept his legs firmly wrapped around the guard as the guard turned in circles, trying to get him off his back. Sherlock increased his grip on the guard's neck, finally managing to make him stumble onto his knees.

"_Come on! Just pass out!"_ Sherlock thought as he knelt behind the guard, his arm still around his neck.

The guard's hands went up to try to claw Sherlock's arm off, but Sherlock wasn't about to budge. Not when his brother's life was on the line. He tugged backward forcefully one more time with his arm, managing to finally make the guard pass out unconscious.

Once the guard was unconscious, Sherlock made quick work of emptying his pockets, pocketing his gun, car keys, and mobile. He took his coat off, lying aside as he put on the guard's leather like coat. But what to do about his hair? Moriarty would be able to tell it was him a mile a way with his hair. He bit his lip in thought, finally deciding to cut some of it off real quick. He found a knife in one of the guard's pockets and brought it up to his hair, jaggedly cutting some of his hair. It fell around him like small, black snowflakes. Sherlock realized that it wouldn't be the best haircut that he had ever received, but knew that if he took too long, Moriarty would become suspicious and the plan would be ruined.

Sherlock pocketed the knife once his hair was cut; his hair now a series of small tufts on the top of his head. He made sure he had everything he needed off the guard before walking toward the vehicle. He kept the keys in hand, his head down, the collar of the guard's coat turned upward so he could tuck his face inside it a bit to remain unseen. He made his way quickly past the tinted windows and into the driver's seat. He placed the keys into the ignition, and started up the car. However, he had no idea where he was going.

He allowed the car to pretend to stall as he dug out the mobile he had taken from the guard, looking through his inbox for texts from Moriarty. He noticed that there were a string of messages that looked odd from the rest. When he went to open them, he saw that the they were locked by a three letter password. That left the possibility of over a thousand combinations. He didn't have that kind of time.

He heard a small rap on the glass behind him. He straightened his posture up so he would not reveal himself to Moriarty. He couldn't.

"Did you forget how to drive?" asked Moriarty's sarcastic voice.

He shook his head, knowing clearly that Moriarty would able to see the shadow of his head shaking "no".

"Then drive, yes. I have places to be, hearts to break, people to kill..."

Moriarty laughed with glee after saying the last one. Sherlock paled, gripping the steering wheel in front of him. He still had absolutely no idea where they were suppose to be headed. If he showed that he didn't know where they were going, he'd kill the both of them. He laid the phone on his leg, keeping one hand on the steering wheel as he set it slowly in motion, the other hand on the cell phone. He'd have to do trail and error with trying to figure out the passcode. Luckily the messages didn't have a three attempt protection on them. You could try as many times as you wanted to figure out the passcode, and that's exactly what Sherlock planned to do.

* * *

"Well, Mycroft," said James with a sigh as he settled against the seat. "Here we are. On the way to your death. Isn't it charming?"

"I wouldn't call it charming," retorted Mycroft as he shifted his gaze to look out the window as they drove along.

"Why not?" pouted James. "You're dying because you tried to save your brother. It's charming."

Mycroft turned his gaze to focus on James once more.

"I'd appreciate it if I didn't have to waste what could be my final breaths talking to you."

"Would you rather be talking to your beloved brother?"

Mycroft's eyes hardened, making James laugh.

"It's so easy to get your goat! Pressing your buttons is just so easy! What happened to being the iceman? Are you finally thawing?"

"Shut. Up," said Mycroft in a slow, measured voice. He was done putting up with James.

"Careful. Remember _I _choose how you die."

He looked away from James again, trying not to shake. He was terrified of dying at the hands of this psychopath, but he had no other choice. He couldn't let James ruin all of London by resigning, and by not resigning, a political scandal would be just as bad. He was stuck with no way out. He had to play by James's rules. James held all the cards.

"Now, that reminds me that I still have not chosen a means to your end."

Mycroft didn't say anything, trying to remain composed.

"Hm...how should I make you fall? Maybe...I'll make you shoot yourself. Quite simple and done relatively easily. Would also be easier to make it appear as a suicide..." James jerked himself from his thoughts when he noticed how slow the car was moving. He turned to rap on the glass, irritated.

"Are you lost, you dolt?"

No response came from the front seat. Frowning slightly, James rapped on the glass harder.

"Are you lost _and _deaf? Answer me!"

At James's sudden acidic tone, the car stopped. James took out the gun he had on him, gripping it. What was going on? The driver of the car got out and approached the backseat; his outline visible in the window. The driver reached to open the door, revealing the outside world to them.

"We've arrived, sir," said the man in a gruff voice.

Mycroft was immediately able to pick up on the fact that that wasn't the voice of the guard who betrayed him. This person was trying to make their voice sound deeper than it actually was. Frowning, he followed James as he yanked him out of the car.

"Well, it sure took you long enough!"

"My apologies, sir," he said, bowing his head slightly.

Mycroft looked at the guard quizzingly as he walked past him. Who was he?

Unfortunately, James realized at the same moment he did who the man really was. A slick grin spread across James's face.

"Well, if it isn't the Holmes brothers reunited again!"

Sherlock lifted up his head, looking at Mycroft. Mycroft stared at Sherlock's changed appearance; at his jaggedly cut hair. Had he really done that for him? Mycroft noted Sherlock's quick motion to his side, where he produced a gun and pointed it at James.

"Let my brother go," said Sherlock, his jaw locking.

James smirked, digging out his own gun and pointing it at Sherlock.

"Don't make me shoot you here. It's much too boring."

Sherlock rolled his eyes before locking his gaze on Mycroft.

"You should have thought about that before."

James rolled his eyes this time.

"No. No. NO! I will not let you ruin this!" stated James, anger flashing in his eyes. "If I can't kill just one, I'll kill both. Then you can both be dead and happy together! Yes, I like that plan a lot."

Before Mycroft could do anything to stop James, James took the butt of his gun and knocked Sherlock out with it, causing him to collapse onto the ground. Mycroft stared at James in horror. Sherlock wasn't suppose to be here. That wasn't suppose to happen. Now they both were left to suffer at the hands of a mad man.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Mycroft watched Sherlock in concern as he sat, limp, in the chair across from him. His forehead was stained with a small patch of scarlet, standing out against his white skin. James was sitting off to the side, keeping an eye on both of them to ensure that they wouldn't escape. He was currently unloading Sherlock's gun, allowing the bullets to drop onto the ground and clink against the tile floor. After James had knocked Sherlock out, he had proceeded to drag the two of them inside Mycroft's office, making both of them sit in the conference room and lock the door.

James looked down the barrel of the gun once it was empty, snapping it shut and tossing it aside.

"You really should look into getting a better security system," suggested James, nodding his head up to the security cameras in the corners of the room, which hung slightly down, signifying that they were currently disabled. "It was much to easy to obtain the passcode. Or maybe you just shouldn't be so trusting. You can't trust anyone."

He placed his own gun across his lap, bouncing his leg as if he were impatient for something.

"Remember, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer," said James, a sly smile spreading across his face. "You forgot that fact, and look where you are now."

Mycroft turned his gaze off his unconscious brother to look at James.

"I did not forget anything. I _chose_ this. I just didn't think it would end up like this."

"Of course you didn't! That's life! It's filled with twists and turns, and no one ever knows what will happen! That's the fun part about it! It's so unpredictable!" James chuckled slightly in amusement.

Mycroft turned back to face Sherlock, seeing slight traces of a grimace on his face as he came around. Sherlock's eyelids soon fluttered open, James grinning widely from ear to ear.

"Welcome back to the land of the living!" said James with immense glee.

Sherlock sat back up from his slouched position, looking around in confusion for a second, no doubt a bit disoriented from being knocked out by the butt of a gun.

"Lets play a game!" exclaimed James, springing up from his chair and clapping his hands together in glee. "It'll be fun!"

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a look. James Moriarty's version of fun was usually not something that matched their version.

James opened the chamber of his gun, emptying all of the bullets, replacing one bullet into the chamber. Sherlock and Mycroft both watched James as he fooled with the gun, spinning the chamber. He snapped the gun shut and then placed it on the table between the two of them.

"I'm sure you must have heard of this game before. It's called Russian Roulette."

Mycroft and Sherlock both looked up at each other, fear present in both of their eyes for a minute.

"See, the object of this game is to be the person to not get a bullet through the brain." A wide smile overtook James's face, making him appear even more malicious than he already was. "By the end of this game, one of you will be dead, and the winner will be able to die in a much more creative way."

James backed away from the table to allow the two brothers to both turn their attention onto the gun.

"So," said James, clapping his hands together in satisfaction. "Who is going first?"

Sherlock shifted his steely blue eyes to meet his brother's, his newly cut hair sticking up at different angles.

"I'll go first," remarked Sherlock, reaching forward to grab the gun.

"Sherlock, no..."

Mycroft reached out, placing his hand over Sherlock's, which rested on top of the gun.

"Mycroft, please..."

"Sherlock, no. I'll go first. This is all my fault."

Sherlock's grip on the gun fell slack a bit as Mycroft grabbed it, bringing it toward him. He stared at his warped reflection in the gun, taking a deep breath.

"If it wasn't for me, you would have been depressed in exile, but at least you would have been alive."

With a shaking hand, Mycroft placed the gun to his temple, his hands pooling with sweat. Sherlock's eyes starting to display small glimpses of sadness.

"Mycroft, don't talk like that."

"Sherlock, you have no idea what I've done. You can't tell me not to talk like that."

Sherlock's eyes filled with pain.

"I know what it's like to sacrifice everything for the people you love," stated Sherlock, looking at Mycroft's paled face. "I know what it's like to want to do anything to protect them."

"Sherlock...stop..." Mycroft's hand was starting to shake more than it was. "Please..."

"I'm not leaving you," said Sherlock flatly. "Even if I had a choice, I would stay here and try to protect you."

Mycroft's eyes started to sting with tears as he tried to blink them back, his finger slipping around the trigger.

"Why?" asked Mycroft, his voice coming out choked sounding.

"Because I'm your brother," he said. "And I care about you. It's a weakness of mine, as it is for you."

Mycroft blinked more rapidly as his finger tightened around the trigger and he pulled back some. Sherlock turned his gaze away as Mycroft pulled back on the trigger all the way. He didn't want to see if the chamber happened to be loaded or not.

As Sherlock's ears were shut, he could hear the empty sound of a click. He cracked open his eyes slowly to watch as Mycroft brought the gun away from his head, unharmed. Mycroft allowed the gun to drop from his hand and back onto the table. James clapped his hands, as if he were congratulating Mycroft for taking the first turn.

"Good job, Mycroft. I can see that you really _do _care about your brother." A smile spread across James's face as he looked over at Sherlock. "Your turn."

Sherlock calmly reached forward and wrapped his hand around the gun, bringing it toward him. Mycroft watched this, his heart hammering in his chest. He turned to James and did something that he had never done in his entire life.

He begged.

"James, please. You wanted to kill me; not Sherlock. If you kill Sherlock, you'll be bored constantly. You'll have no one to play your games with."

James shifted his cold eyes back to Mycroft, a smirk worming its way onto his face.

"Are you_ begging_, Mycroft Holmes?"

James's smirk turned into a wide grin, lighting up his face.

"Sherlock is right. He is your weakness." James placed his hands on either side of the table in front of Mycroft and leered in his face. "And I plan on exploiting it. So, no. This game _will _continue."

James stood back upright, clasping his hands behind his back. Sherlock placed the gun to his temple, allowing his eyes to lock with Mycroft as he wrapped his finger around the trigger and pulled back. Again, an empty 'click' sounded. James pretended to pout.

"Why won't one of you die already?"

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged another look. Mycroft reached to grab the gun again as Sherlock replaced it on the table, looking at Sherlock with saddened eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry to have put you in this position, Sherlock."

Sherlock's crisp blue eyes stared at him, a small smile coming onto his face.

"Don't apologize, Mycroft. I appreciate all that you were trying to do for me. I didn't realize, at first, that you were the reason I stayed in London. You were the one that made that possible."

"Yes, but I should have tried to find another way," said Mycroft placing the gun against his temple. "I should have found some other way. I was just desperate."

Sherlock nodded.

"Please don't apologize, Mycroft. We all make our fair share of mistakes. We're all human."

Mycroft smiled a watery smile as he pulled back on the trigger. He knew that one of them wouldn't get out of this alive, and he just hoped that it was him, and not Sherlock. He couldn't bare it if this deal ended up killing Sherlock. He just couldn't.

Another empty 'click'; another empty chamber. Mycroft dropped the gun back onto the table, and Sherlock grabbed it up once more. There were only three more chambers left to go through before one of them ended up dead. James looked at his fingernails, shaking his head in disgust.

"Such a shame, such a shame. You've disappointed me once again, Sherlock."

Sherlock paused, staring at his warped reflection in the gun, his face going passive.

"I wasn't doing any of this to please you."

"How sad," said James in a mocking tone. "You should have."

James walked toward Sherlock, stopping to leer right in his face. Sherlock flicked his gaze up to James, searching his eyes, trying not to look intimidated.

"You killed Magnussen in cold blood. I thought that you had turned into a psychopath like me."

James backed up, a grin on his face as he watched Sherlock with the gun.

"I'm not a psychopath, nor will I ever be. I'm a high-functioning sociopath."

With a determined look on his face, Sherlock turned the gun to face James, tightening his finger around the trigger. He cocked his head to one side, a small smile forming on his face as he said, "You really should do your research."

Sherlock pulled back on the trigger, causing the bullet to fly through the air and hit James in the shoulder before he had time to react. James howled in pain, immediately putting his arm over the bleeding bullet hole, collapsing onto his knees onto the ground. Sherlock stood up from the table, and walked over to James.

"Don't mess with me."

Mycroft stared at Sherlock, still a little shaken as he walked over to stand beside him. Sherlock bent down to retrieve James's mobile, dialing the yard. As soon as he had placed his call, Mycroft turned and wrapped his arms around Sherlock; Sherlock wrapping his arms around him in turn.

"How did you know you were the one with the bullet?"

Sherlock kept his arms around Mycroft, hugging him tight, burying his face in Mycroft's shoulder.

"I didn't."

* * *

**AN: Thank you to everyone that has been reading this fic all along. It's not done yet, but it is close to its conclusion. I still plan on writing Series 4 "episodes". If you have any suggestions, please feel free to let me know. On an off note, today, June 17th, 2014, marks my one year anniversary of being on FanFiction. I can't believe that it has been a year already! It's just...wow! So, anyway, sorry for the small babble and I hope you enjoyed this latest update. **


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

It was a week later, and Mycroft was still mulling over everything that had just occurred to him. Sherlock had caught John up on everything, going into the details as only someone like Sherlock could. Mycroft still found himself mulling over a sentence that Sherlock had told him after he had shot Moriarty, a sentence that had only consisted of two words, yet they were two words that had been bugging him day and night.

When Mycroft had asked Sherlock how he knew that the shot he fired at Moriarty wouldn't be a false one, he had claimed not to know. Sherlock admitting that he didn't know something, and in truth really not knowing it, was one of the oddest occurrences in the history of the world. He had finally admitted he didn't know something instead of doing what he usually did, which either consisted of him going complete silent like the grave while he thought of another solution, or caused him to mope for days on end.

Mycroft meant to pull Sherlock aside, and question him about it, but soon thought better against it. Besides, it wasn't like he could. His life had gotten busier as of late. As soon as Moriarty had been captured and turned over to the Yard, the press was all over Mycroft and Sherlock like ants at a picnic. They had to answer a series of questions to satisfy everyone's curiosity. (Even some of the people that worked at the Yard, like Lestrade and Donovan, expressed immense interest in how they had managed to foil Moriarty's plot).

Of course, all this questioning meant that the truth was in danger of coming to light, which was something that Mycroft wished to avoid. Before anyone could get to the scene though, he had talked matters through with his brother, and together, both of them had managed to come up with a story that was part fiction, but mainly the truth.

They told the press that after Moriarty had re-announced his presence in London, he was intent on taking a new approach to taking Sherlock down. This new approach including kidnapping his brother, Mycroft, and holding him for ransom, (which is where the fiction part comes in as I'm sure you readers already know from having read the story thus far). Sherlock, once he had heard that his brother was being held for ransom, quickly sprung into action, but didn't alert the Yard to what he was doing because he wanted to work alone. To get close to Mycroft, Sherlock had to cut his hair and blend in as one of Moriarty's men. In the end though, the disguise hadn't been enough to fool Moriarty and the two of them were forced to engage in the viscous game known as Russian Roulette. Sherlock, being the masterful detective that he was, figured out which chamber housed the solitary bullet, and used his knowledge to his advantage, lodging the bullet in its new home in Moriarty's shoulder.

Even with the story spun, to both the Yard and the press, questions were still being flown at them left and right. There were days where Mycroft didn't bother showing up at the office, preferring to work at home in quiet and solitude. Today was one of those days.

Mycroft looked up from the paperwork that was in front of him to see that Sherlock was lying on the sofa, eyes closed as if in a state of sleep. He knew fairly well that Sherlock was not asleep though, and only pretending to be so so that he would be left alone to his own devices and thoughts.

"Sherlock, I have a question to ask you."

As he had rightly assumed, Sherlock was not asleep, his lips moving slowly, forming words before actually pronouncing them.

"What question might that be, brother mine?"

"A question about that Russian Roulette game we had engaged ourselves in last week."

After Mycroft had said that, he noticed something visibly change in his brother's body language. Sherlock shifted slightly on the sofa, his muscles appearing to tense up slightly as he cracked open one of his eyes to look at his brother, something troubling stirring within his crystal blue sphere.

"What about it do you wish to discuss? Surely you don't wish to go over the possibility of one of us getting shot-"

"Of course not," interrupted Mycroft, shifting his position in his chair to appear as relaxed as he could be discussing such a topic as they were. "I was merely curious about what you told me once the so called game had reached its conclusion."

This time, Sherlock sat up on the sofa, opening both eyes and training them on his elder brother. Sherlock reached up a hand to run it through what remained of his raven curls. (Sherlock had gone to a barber once the incident was over and received what people called a 'proper haircut' which included getting his hair cut until it looked like it had been shaved instead of mowed off).

"You mean about me not having knowledge about where the bullet truly was? That I took a lucky stab that the round I shot at Moriarty would indeed be the real one, even if that meant if it wasn't that I'd be risking my own life?"

Sherlock raised a slender brow, waiting for Mycroft to volley back an answer.

"Yes, indeed. You have deduced what I am asking. Are you honestly telling me that you indeed had no prior knowledge of where the bullet was? Or are you just jesting with me?"

Sherlock tore his gaze away from Mycroft, focusing instead on anything else but his brother's watchful gaze. He let out a sigh, leaning back against the cushions on the couch, clearly debating what kind of answer he should feed Mycroft that would be satisfactory enough to satisfy him.

"I speak the truth to you, brother mine, when I tell you that I indeed did not have any prior knowledge as to which chamber the bullet was housed in. Is it so odd that I not know?"

"For you, it is," commented Mycroft, staring intently at Sherlock. "You always know things that others don't."

Sherlock smirked at that, rolling his eyes up to focus on the ceiling while he thought about his answer.

"I have to start by saying that I was not in a right state of mind whilst playing that game. The knock to my head could be such that it could cause a concussion under some circumstances."

"Luckily, we all know you have a hard head," chuckled Mycroft, hints of laughter creeping into the seams of the dark subject they were discussing.

Sherlock managed to chuckle slightly at that playful jest.

"Very true I suppose."

The laughter soon died from his voice, his voice soon returning to its melancholy state.

"I was more worried about your safety in that moment. Panic got in the way of my usually rational thought process. Luckily, it happened to be panic that was beneficial to both of us. I happened to get lucky."

"It's like the anonymous saying goes, I suppose. 'Luck has a peculiar habit of favoring those who don't depend on it'."

Sherlock chuckled again at the saying that Mycroft said.

"Well, I suppose Moriarty isn't a very lucky Irishman then. Aren't they suppose to be the ones that have all the luck?"

"Supposedly," agreed Mycroft with a small snigger.

He stood up from his chair then, arching his back slightly as he stretched. He liked seeing the tense nature that had taken a hold of Sherlock during their discussion leave him. Even if he didn't dare admit it to himself, he was gratefully for his company, and also grateful that he managed to save his skin. If it wasn't for Sherlock, he might not have his position, let alone his life.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled softly at his brother, nodding.

"That would be wonderful. Thank you."

He smiled, turning to walk off to the kitchen to start the brewing. He was nice that this whole business was behind them.

Or at least he hoped it was.

* * *

**AN: I apologize that the update took so long. I shall try to be more vigilant with updating it, though I am rather busy. I can only promise I'll try my best. :)**


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